Friday, February 26, 2010

Reverie of the absurd... or is it.

From the files of Story! True!!

My day begins early. Well, earlier than I'd like; getting up at 6:30 to run the 10 year old to school because--no bus service. Maybe you've noticed, and this is confirmed by sleep studies, there is a "sweet time" after you awaken, for whatever reason, during which you can likely slip back into sleep fairly easily--but wait too long and you will stare at the ceiling in a supine form of non-water torture.

Since I am about to drive, I force myself into wakefulness to make sure I'm sharp and safe. On rare occasion, I nap when I get back. That happened today when at around 8:30 AM, I slipped into reclination and promptly found myself at the end of a check-out counter in a brightly lit grocery store. I don't normally remember dreams, but, well, you'll see...

A voice says, "You have to check her pouch."

OK, let's get some situational awareness. At the customer end of the counter is a kangaroo holding a shopping basket tightly to her chest with both forepaws. Below the basket, it is clear that her pouch has a slight pooch. The kangaroo is kind of short--so, maybe it's a wallaby.

The voice belongs to the cashier, who appears to be an enormous beaver. Well, I can't see the tail so it could be a giant otter or some other rodent-ish relative. Beave looks me square in the face and repeats "you will have to check her pouch." I guess we're assuming kangaroos or wallabys are prone to shoplift.

My first reaction is whoa, hold on Tex... why do I have to check her pouch? Clearly I am just a bagboy, situated at the end of the conveyor. I am making minimum wage here. Why doesn't Beave do it? Aren't cashiers higher on the food chain for that sort of thing? Maybe Beave is peeved or has marsupial-envy or something.

Beave patiently waits. No, I'm not feeling pressure from Beave, but I am feeling pressure... more accurately, it's a kind of creeping horror.

I don't want to stick my hand in that pouch. No. I don't even want to look. What if there's a joey in there nursing? Ugh, kangaroo milk. Or, it might be a huge wad of belly-button lint with...stuff in it. I mean, you know, what the heck-all can be in a kangaroo's pouch? How do they clean it? Think in terms of what's behind your sofa cushions, behind the fridge, or on the floor of your car. I am thinking "Listen Beave, if you want to rescue that bag of Doritos or some such, call the manager--and tell him to bring welder's gloves or a ten foot pole. I think that's like a Code Six."

Suddenly the phone rings, for real, and I am awake and spared further reflection on pouch detritus. I don't recognize the number on caller ID. However, I do note the area code is one number off from my own and so, expect to tell the caller they miss-dialed. Maybe they realized that when I answered, because no one spoke. While I listen to silence, I briefly think hey, what if my number is one-off from John Mayer's and this is Jennifer Aniston calling to bitch me out for the Playboy interview? In that case, guess I don't sound much like John Mayer.

Whatever. The interlude is short enough I am able to close eyes and slide back to the grocery and, sure enough, I do. Apparently the crisis has passed--because kanga/wallaby has left, Beave is scanning a Lunchable and I am back to bagging for minimum wage. Phew, close one, eh Beave? That's pretty much where things end.

Some people I know would be all over this as sub-conscious, sub-textual, sub-something. What did the pouch represent? And why the beaver? I prefer to ask simply, why ask why? If you google "why ask why" you might find this little gem:

Food for thought.


jorg wobblington lopez said...

Sounds sexual

mvorpal said...

Yeah, it kinda does. It didn't hit me that way until I finished the blog, but the whole business was so weird I posted it anyway.